OUT OF THE EAST
by
Terence Gibbons
This is book #1 In the Deniable Assets Series
Within the United Kingdom there exists a
secret organisation that is answerable only to the residing Prime Minister. It
has no official budget because nothing it does can be recorded in any archive.
Its intelligence sources are MI6 and MI5 but it is part of neither.
It is England's oldest secret service and,
because it is unknown, it is above and beyond the laws of the land. Its mandate
is to provide solutions to problems that cannot be resolved by either political
means or through the law of the land.
The organisation is run by only one man,
usually a former army officer of high rank. Its agents are recruited –
hand-picked for their specialist talents – from various arms of the military.
Some come from the ranks of the SAS, others from the Parachute battalions while
others are from the Royal Marine Commando's elite SBS. All are volunteers and
dedicated to the ‘Group’ they are assigned to.
For identification purposes the units are
known as Groups. There are a number of such groups but none know the identities
of members of the other Groups for security reasons. If a member of a Group is
killed then he or she is replaced from outside but never from another group. If
they are killed on foreign soil they are brought back to Britain – if possible
– if not they are left behind in unmarked graves. Their existence is always
denied and their actions deniable.
Groups have been known to assassinate foreign
leaders both in this country and abroad, organise rebellions to bring down
unfriendly regimes, support chosen foreign governments. A Group is a deadly
force made up of ordinary people who are willing to forfeit themselves for the
best interests of the country.
All work to one rule: Do not get caught!
They are Deniable Assets!
Chapter One
Major David
Forrester peered over the high crest of a dune close to Oman’s border with Yemen.
He scanned the ground below him as far as the horizon which danced in the heat
haze. The direction he expected the column of rebels to come from. On a similar
rise, almost opposite his position, was a stately animal. By its brilliant
white coat and brown markings he recognised it as an Arabian Oryx, a threatened
species in most of Arabia. It looked like a male, probably the leader of its
herd. Its horns, brown like its legs, facial and neck markings, rose above its
head to give it a height of almost two meters. Forrester watched it with great
interest. Animals were the best guards in their territory and the Oryx was the
foremost of all in these desert wildernesses. It looked nervous and Forrester
had to determine the cause of its disquiet. It pawed the ground causing gravel, of which
most of this desert was composed, to trickle down the slope. Even at this
distance Forrester could hear it. Was it someone in his own command that unsettled
it? He swung his binoculars in an arc until he located a movement to its right.
A wolf showed itself briefly above a ridge of rocks.
The wolf,
next to man, was what had put the Arabian Oryx on the endangered list. The Oryx
turned and gave a warning to the herd out of sight. A cloud of dust rose as the
herd rapidly responded to their leader. Forrester saw the stream of wolves
follow in pursuit. His peripheral vision caught a cloud of dust thrown up to
his left and focused the binoculars to pull the distance into focus. He counted
the trucks as they came into view. He now needed to be down with his men but
moving tactically in that kind of terrain has to be slow and careful not to
give away one’s position. It is so easy to dislodge a noisy displacement of the
unstable shale which is very prone to avalanche. He moved his feet carefully –
feeling for secure footholds with each step. At the bottom he slipped his
binoculars into the canvas case he looked around to where Sergeant Steven
(Spike) Phillips waited. Spike was never far away from the major. The sergeant
was speaking quietly into the handset of his radio.
Forrester frequently thought of him as his
personal armed shadow but had also been glad of the fact many times when the
sergeant's beefy fist had snatched him out of the path of a bullet. Spike and
Forrester had known each other since going through ‘P Company’ together in
Aldershot. Spike had been a private then and Forrester a young, and relatively
green, lieutenant. Thereafter they had served together in the same battalion of
the Parachute Regiment before both passed the demanding SAS selection course.
Forrester could not say off the top of his head how much action they had seen
together but their combination had always worked well – each was a compliment
of the other.
They had survived.
They had served together the first time in
Oman with the SAS where the ‘Regiment’ honed its skills regularly. The
operations then had been a different kettle of fish to this one. They had been
more covert. Now they found themselves in Oman as the guests of Sultan Said bin
Said, a liberal ruler in many respects who had broken tradition by giving
voting rights to women and had faced strong criticism for spending oil revenues
on education and general welfare. The posting, for the British soldiers, was
voluntary and of one month's duration. Though the country was strictly Muslim,
the Sultan imported sufficient alcoholic beverages to keep his British guests
happy. Each volunteer had been instructed to enter next to his name and
favourite drink on the notice posted on their battalion's noticeboard. So far each
man had been pleased, even to the quantity.
The oil-rich country has been plagued by a
Soviet backed rebellion since 1962. Britain has strong financial interests in
Oman mostly in the presence of British Petroleum which has the franchise to the
oil fields, so contingents of troops are sent regularly in an 'advisory
capacity'. Advice includes 'practical demonstrations in the field' as
well as training the native troops. Many British units, in return, gain
valuable experience while putting into practice all that they have trained for.
For some soldiers to achieve the high skills that are learned during manoeuvres
and not be able to test them on the battlefield can be a great demoraliser. The
young men are proud and need to have their mettle put to the test.
The skilled oil workers are mostly from
Britain so the British government is more than willing to protect their
investments and their own citizens and Oman is not a bad country to live in.
The work is very well paid and the accommodation luxurious though the married
workers have their own houses built in the major towns. Their children go to
schools that the oil company finances and they even run their own clubs where
they can get together for various interests and sports. Alcohol is also sold in
the clubs which are within the compounds. So, with their lucrative jobs and very
high standard of living, the oil workers are very reluctant to leave Oman.
While more than ninety-nine per cent of the
citizenry are Muslim – in the capital of Muscat they follow the Ibadhi sect while in
Salalah, the second largest city, the Muslims are Sunni. The two sects agree on
most that is taught within Islam though there are things they differ on hence
the two sects. In Oman there is little conflict between them though so the only
threat is from outside. Crime is pretty low in what is, after all, a Muslim
country with its strict capital penal code. Amputations for theft are carried
out but not as public spectacles as in some neighbouring Arab states.
Around
Salalah, which is the perfume capital of Arabia, can be found fine beaches and
tourism does flourish between the wars. There are many interesting examples of
architecture to be found, some dating back hundreds of years. For those who
have a leaning towards archaeology there are many ruined forts to explore. The
town boasts fine hotels like the Hilton, Crowne Plaza and the Hamdan Plaza. The
pure white Sultan's Qaboos Mosque dominates Salalah's skyline.
The rebels live, and generally muster, over
the border in Yemen or Saudi Arabia from where they make their incursions –
attacking then retreating back over the border. Intelligence had advised on a
strong force of rebels on their way to attack the oil-wells and communities in
a sector about two hundred kilometres north-west of Salalah. Two hundred
kilometres over the mixed terrain that Oman boasts. Forrester had led his
battalion of British and Royal Omani troops along deep wadis, over rocky ridges
and sand dunes through temperatures that rose into the fifties centigrade. The
deep wadis could be a death trap and had to be scouted by his best men to
ensure that the scrub that clung to life did not conceal any opposing factions.
He had learned the danger while on SAS duty in the country. SAS troops could spend a whole night
crawling towards a suspected wadi before a dawn attack would drive the
occupants into the heavy fire of the main military contingent.
There was no source of water for them at
that season of the year so sufficient had to be carried in with them in the
wagons and bowsers towed behind. He was glad it was not the hot season yet.
Fifty degrees in that kind of terrain was hot enough for anyone. The dust was
saline and did nothing but exacerbate the suffering of thirsty men. Most of
Oman had at some pre-historic time lain beneath the sea. Shells of sea
creatures could be found even in the foothills of the mountains to the north.
After the long journey his scouts had
finally found the perfect spot for an ambush in a rocky area on the route the
rebels would be forced to take. The terrain itself determined any traveller's
route.
Spike was permanently bonded to his A13 HF
radio which gave him regular updates from a large aircraft flying ten thousand
metres above them spotting the terrain below and hopefully the enemy. While
they were not equipped to identify individual weapons they could identify
trucks carrying the rebels. Forrester took a large, khaki handkerchief from
inside his shirt, removed his keffiyeh
and wiped the sweat from his eyes and face. He carefully replaced the keffiyeh according to how he had
been instructed. Other officers had had their sport with him, some comparing
him to Lawrence of Arabia, but he had stuck with the traditional headgear for
its usefulness in the climate for which it had evolved. The sun was only just
beginning to rise but the temperature was climbing with it. With luck they
would have this fight over before the worst of the day’s heat was upon them.
His reconnaissance had informed him that
the rebels were not as ill-equipped to take on such a large target as the
intelligence reports had suggested. With Soviet financial backing the rebels
were now a modernised army with small, open topped, Toyota four-wheel drive
pick-ups with general purpose machine guns mounted on their roll bars. A few
were equipped with rocket propelled grenades – anti-tank missiles that could
also be used against ground troops and even gun emplacements. In addition each
truck was able to transport a handful of rebels. Each vehicle struggled under
the weight of the men and their AK47s – not the ideal weapon for a battle of
this sort but the cheapest they could afford. And when fired in long vollies
they were noisy – a factor that seemed to appeal to the Arab. They would not
settle for anything less unless it was bigger and noisier. He calculated that
the convoy consisted of twenty armed pick-ups and five four-ton trucks
bristling with armed men and supplies. Those defending the oil wells, pipe
lines and their small communities were about to have a battle on their hands.
And that meant Forrester’s command.
The Arabs
did not like to fight in the heat knowing that the body lost liquid at such an
alarming rate that no amount of drinking could counteract. But he had chosen this time for that very reason, that it would give
his force an element of surprise. The rebels would be tired after their all
night journey and looking forward to resting throughout the heat of the day,
attacking when the clear night fell. Forrester had seen to it that each pair of
men had plenty of water in skins close to them and even better a sack of dates
although some of the water was for cooling the muzzles of their weapons which
could seize solid otherwise. This was April, supposedly the wettest month with
the prospect of between 17 and 18 millimetres of rain. Not much by European
standards but a lot for the Arabian Peninsula. Last month was the second
wettest but not a drop had fallen. With a climate like this one could hardly
call it a drought even though there was no precipitation. The dew carried by
the coastal breezes provided some moisture but the soil, that had once been
very fertile, was now becoming too saline to support much but the hardiest of
tufted grass and dwarfed shrubs. Along the coastline it was fertile with
coconut palms, oleander and acacia being prominent so that approaching from the
gulf the land gave the appearance of a paradise.
Forrester had sighted his FN MAG, Belgian
7.62mm general purpose machine guns and 105mm Pack Howitzer artillery pieces
under camouflage netting to great effect – having men 'sweep' away all
tell-tale signs of their passing – and now he waited for the inevitable battle
when the rebels came within range. It took patience to judge the right moment to open fire – a stoicism
that was made almost impossible by the mercy-less heat. Their clothing did little to reduce its vicious burning. He and his men had to be a solid
check-point between the rebels and their main objective of disrupting the flow
of oil and thus causing financial chaos to a country that was being slowly squeezed
by the rebellion. He felt that today the rebels were on a suicide mission – of
which they had no hope of success, but then most rebel actions were of this
sort. His command was well dug in so their losses
should be negligible. He
was surprised that the rebels had not sent forward scouts to ensure the route
was safe and he had placed hand-picked men forward to take care of them if they
did. He had listened to the grumblings from the Omani
soldiers at having to endure the night without a fire, and no cigarettes. He
heard himself called some pretty awful things in their language but maintained
a stoic expression on his face as he passed their bivouacs. He knew from
experience that troops that did not complain were worthless. When British
troops ceased complaining it usually meant there was mutinous trouble in the
offing.
Spike heard
his headphones crackle before it became clear speech; their forward observation
posts were reporting in that the rebels were now coming within range.
“Time to do it, Boss,” Spike was his usual
calm, self-possessed self.
“Come on then, Spike. We'll hit fuck-all
from here!”
As the two men ran there was little to
choose between them. They were both tall, muscular men, and it was their choice
of hairstyle that separated them. While Forrester’s was a court cut and curly
Spike had always favoured a spiky number three all over. It was easy to
maintain although he did have to use his hair clipper more often than barber
parades would have demanded. Washing and drying it was a doddle. At a pinch, in
environments like Oman a fine comb was enough to keep the sandy grit at bay.
The other difference was in their facial features. Forrester’s face was lean
with pronounced cheekbones while Spike's was much rounder. Both men were clean
shaven.
They scuttled to their positions behind an
outcrop of rocks. Forrester was a man who preferred to lead from the front. To
show his men that he was willing to take the risks they were taking. He raised his left arm in a
pre-arranged ready signal and every man readied his weapon whether a rifle,
machine gun or 105mm Pack Howitzer. He waited with
strained forbearance until the last vehicle in the convoy came within range of
the artillery. As the right moment came his arm dropped. He raised his SLR and
sighted a target as the whole force coordinated their barrage. High explosive
artillery shells rained down on the advancing rebels. 50mm mortars joined in
for good measure. Machine-gun fire ripped through the exposed bodies on the
trucks and individual shots from rifles decimated those who leapt for cover.
Their whole world became a cacophony of
shells and high velocity rifle rounds. The pungent stench of cordite hung in
the almost still desert air. Well placed artillery shells and mortars bracketed
and exploded among the rebels, throwing trucks high in the air destroying both
men and vehicles. Fuel tanks exploded showering the wounded with burning
petrol. Some in commanders of rebel trucks valiantly fired their rocket
propelled grenades at the artillery positions but their accuracy was for the
most part poor under fire. Forrester noted the explosions and wondered if there
were any casualties among his gunners. Yet he was caught up in the fever of
battle – the blood lust of identifying targets and shooting without counting
the fatalities on the other side. Through his mind ran the words of General
George Patton: “You
win battles by killing more men than you lose.”
His guns and mortars were still pounding
away so there could not have been much damage from the in-coming RPGs. He
concentrated his small arms fire on their soft targets as the rebels tried to
run for shelter or defiantly fired off long bursts that looked macho but would
soon jam their weapons while at the same time their stance made them easy
targets which his men must take advantage of. He zeroed in on a man and
squeezed off a shot watching the hole suddenly appear in the rebel's chest. An
SLR has a muzzle velocity of something around Mach 2. You don't see them
coming. If you hear it then you are safe – the shot has missed you. The battle
seemed to go on forever. Shoot a couple of times then move to a different
position to avoid giving away your position. And each time there were targets
waiting. Not human beings. He could never come to terms with that. A target was
one thing but a person was something else. Killing – that was what his
soldiering had been reduced to. A body count that he could not live with. How
many he himself had brought down he could not say, nor would he hazard a guess.
It would blow his mind if he knew how many lives they had taken between
them. He was ashamed of the lust he had
for killing. He knew he was inhuman to feel any elation for what he did. And
yet he did it. Spike interrupted his crazy killing spree by gesturing with the handset
of his radio. Oh Spike, do you also bear the torment of the death toll we
wreak? What effect does it have on you? Do you have flash-backs when you least
expect them? I do? We never talk about these things do we? And I wonder if we
should. Nothing was mentioned on that occasion either.
Spike was unable to hide the wash of relief
that surged over him at seeing the major unscathed. They had drawn apart during
the battle as so often happens. He felt a warmth flow through him that the
major, Dave his best mate, had come through uninjured - physically at least. He
did not look too good but his was the stress of command and all that went with
it.
“The rear of the column has turned in
retreat. The sultan has two of his brand-new toys up there to pulverise them.”
Spike held his hand to his brow as he scanned a sky that tortured his retinas.
It took something away from Forrester’s
personal achievement as two of the Sultan's BAC 167 Strikemasters wheeled in
the air to attack and destroy the retreating rebel column with cannon fire and
missiles. He had not noted the time when the battle began, but the exchange was
naturally brief considering the vast difference in fire power and battlefield
discipline. The prognosis was without doubt a total victory for Forrester’s
command. A few Yemeni and Omani rebels began flapping anything they could use
as white flags and were quickly rounded up, roughly disarmed and taken prisoner.
At some later point they would be interrogated – not by Forrester but by the
Sultan's men. What their sentence would be Forrester could only guess. It would
be bad. While Oman has a legal system based on British Law it also retains some
elements of Sharia Law dictated by the teachings of the Koran and,
although the Sultan was judged to be easier going than most of his neighbours
in the Middle East, Forrester did not hold out much hope for the rebels good
treatment.
Spike Phillips received a message over the
radio and went to locate the major who was checking the wounded of his own
command. Of a total strength of nearly five hundred they had suffered only
twenty three wounded and two killed. Forrester saw the urgency in his
sergeant's face and led him out of earshot of the men. Sporadic fire was still
heard as some rebels fought back with fanaticism in order to qualify for their
exalted positions in whatever each man's idea of paradise. He deeply wanted to
put a stop to these killings but did not want to risk the lives of his men to
act as referees between men who had such diverse beliefs. Perhaps he was right
to let the killing continue. It was not slaughter because the rebels could just
as easily throw down their weapons and surrender. No one’s life was worth the
false pride of fanaticism.
“I’ve just received a message, Boss, from
Darnley, by the signature. We are requested to return to Salalah soonest with
regard to immediate transfer to the UK.” Spike shrugged but knew what lay
behind the message. Both the major and he were part of Group Alpha. Something
was going on back home that needed their specialist attention. The major
removed his keffiyeh and
brushed sand out of his curly hair. Spike had one day arrived on parade wearing
a keffiyeh too. When Forrester
thought about it there was just a slim chance that, in the heat of battle, the keffiyeh could save them just as
well as body-armour. A head wearing a keffiyeh could confuse a
rebel just long enough for the wearer to get his shot in first. The difference
between death and survival could be just that close.
“Inform them at base that we need casualty evacuation
flights for the twenty-five wounded and dead. We can squeeze ourselves into one
of the choppers somehow.”
He turned to give orders for the captured
trucks that were serviceable to be brought up to carry the walking wounded
while the rest were to be destroyed to prevent the rebels from cannibalising
them and the weapons for spares. All enemy ammunition was loaded onto their own convoy, while the
prisoners were ordered on to their own four ton trucks that had survived the
shelling, with armed escorts. Spike cringed as he saw a
young soldier of the Sultan's army scooping up armfuls of RPGs and tossing them
without any apparent care into the bed of a truck.
“Oy!” he shouted making the soldier spin
around to face him. “Be careful how you handle them things. We don't want any
accidents.”
“Yes Sergeant,” the boy, for that's all he
appeared to be, answered in embarrassment. Many of the prisoners were carrying
Mills 36M hand grenades with which they could still launch a successful
assault. They were secreted inside their flowing white thawbs;
Spike had each man roughly and thoroughly searched. The net gain, besides
security, was a sack full of hand grenades together with and an assortment of
pistols and knives. The sack was placed in the leading truck which was filled
with all the captured ammunition and weapons.
Spike went along from one truck to another
checking the condition of each and whatever weapons they were fitted with. He
was amused to see how launchers for the RPG-7s were fastened to the tubing roll
bars by cat’s cradles of fencing wire. When he had cleared one of the weapons
and any useful spares he set a patch of C4 plastic explosive on the fuel tank
out of sight and wired it to the ignition. With some of the vehicles he had to
be craftier and hide all evidence of his tampering. They could not be expected
to keep on blowing themselves up and not cotton on that they were rigged so at
times he had to be a little more creative by shorting a cable from the main
loom into the fuel tank. It was a trick he had seen used in an old World War
Two movie and it usual had them jumping in into the arms of Allah quick enough.
The trucks had to be destroyed so why not their drivers with them? Nobody
switched off on this job.
Four Wessex H2 helicopters soon arrived and
all wounded were taken gently into them where they were attended by medics and
doctors. Forrester handed over command to his Second in Command, a young but
promising captain in the Royal Omani Army. He was only too happy to take charge
as it would mean he would be the centre of attraction as they drove
victoriously into Salalah. It was two hours before they began their drive on
the gruelling journey over the rough, lunar landscape towards Salalah. The sun was coming up to its zenith
and the heat had risen to its unseasonable 50° C with no movement in the air to
give relief.
In the slow
moving helicopters the air was almost unbreathable even with the doors open. They passed time by helping out with the injured but fortunately
their wounds were not life-threatening just yet. In an Hour or so the wounded
would be tucked up between fresh linen sheets with women like angels to look
after them. The dead would be buried with full military honours. The Sultan did
not skimp on facilities for his troops. He bought in the very best and when
they needed anything they got it as quickly as it could be delivered. There was a brotherhood between them
having fought so many power struggles over the years together.
Spike and
Forrester crouched in an over-loaded helicopter that took them on their first
leg of their long flight back to Salalah and eventually the United Kingdom via
Akrotiri in Cyprus. They reached Salalah just over an
hour later.
After organizing their flight home they
went into the town to do a bit of shopping. Forrester had promised himself a khanja
knife – a curved dagger that was traditionally carried by Omani men. He and
Spike found what he was looking for in one of the traditional souqs
– open air markets that sold everything from household goods to food, jewellery
and ornaments. He chose a second-hand knife as being a genuine example and not
the inferior copies churned out for tourists. It would look good on the wall of
his room beside his Nepalese khukri and Samurai swords. Spike bought his wife some
traditional jewellery and some bottles of the locally produced perfume. After a
meal in the town they waited for a taxi to take them to their quarters. Spike
looked up at the thousand metre high mountain ridge that dominated the northern
skyline forming a protective arm curving behind the town. He wondered if he
would ever see it again. They had not had much chance to explore the town and
he knew there were many places of interest to see. The taxi ride back to their
quarters only revealed what they had already seen. They changed into civilian
clothes and called the duty driver to take them and their luggage to Salalah
Airport. The long journey home began. A Hercules C-130 would take them to RAF
Akrotiri in Cyprus where, if they were lucky, they would board a Vickers VC10.
The luck involved came in the way of that the RAF had a ruling that their own
personnel took priority over anyone else. An unknown waiting period at RAF
Akrotiri was not something to look forward to.
There was very little entertainment and passing the time in the bar was
not to be recommended when they had no idea of what the coming mission
involved.
Friday...April 4th...1969...Dhekelia...Cyprus...Evening
Captain Joseph Collins
was a doctor as well as a former member of the SAS. His Hippocratic oath was
something between himself and his god. While sworn to preserve life he was well
skilled in taking it but within Group Alpha his primary task was providing the
medical cover for the group on missions. A small man in stature and slender in
build his movements were well coordinated. Every movement he made was with a
minimum of effort and great precision - some would say with grace - which made
his two favourite sports, scuba diving and sailing easy for him. He was also
skilled at dancing both modern and traditional thanks to his mother who thought
a man should be able to show himself at his best on the dance floor. He had
been waltzing and doing the quickstep since he was a boy. He had added to his
repertoire of dances through experience. His black hair was well groomed if a
little on the long side for army regulations. Officers managed to get away with
these minor infringements. He only rushed to the hairdresser's when a senior
officer was about to visit and that was a rare occasion. His moustache however
was well clipped and in keeping with army regulations - it did not come below
his top lip. His blue eyes were so pale they appeared almost white, which
created a striking effect with his dark hair and the deep tan that six months in
Cyprus had given him. It had been six months of holiday-like duty for him with very
little to do but treat sunburned soldiers who should have known better than to
overexpose themselves to the strong sun. Those who were severely affected would
in all probability be charged with self-inflicted wounds according to military
law. He had operated on one case of acute appendicitis and delivered a dozen
babies. Both the RAF and the Army had permanently posted personnel on the
island so his working day was taken up pretty much the same as that of a
civilian doctor in the UK.
But the weather was better and the
lifestyle more enjoyable even though there was a drought on. There was little
greenery to be seen except up in the mountains where streams where lined with struggling
trees whose growth showed evidence of their fight to survive. Tables had been
placed in the shade of the scattered trees on base and tea urns placed on them
filled with fresh orange juice for those who had the sense to drink it. But
most of the troops were sick of oranges because of their cheapness and ready
availability. His spare time, when he was able to dress casually, was spent
mostly taking part in beach sports and water activities with occasional coach
trips to museums and archaeology sites. It was like being on holiday with duty
an intrusion. He had developed a strong interest in archaeology while at
Cambridge University and it had remained with him. And he was grateful because
it had changed his whole life – the way he thought about the more important
things in life. Books on archaeology were always to be found on his bedside
locker. Cyprus was one ‘big dig’ it seemed to him. It was on such a trip, to Khirokitia, that he had met Gwen Hopcyn who was also a doctor. Her rank was major,
one grade above him. That trip to the Neolithic site had had a magical
atmosphere that was enhanced by Gwen's presence.
A great deal of its importance as a find came from it being evidence, for its
time, of an organised and functional settlement formed into a collective
settlement, with surrounding fortifications for communal protection. The site, which
is situated on the slope of a hill in the valley of the Maroni River towards
the southern coast of the island about 6 km from the sea, had been discovered
in 1934 by Porphyrios Dikaios, who was the Director of the Cyprus Department of
Antiquities.
It represented the Neolithic aceramic
period and had been occupied from the 7th millennia BC. It consisted
of small circular white buildings with domed roofs while some were flat. The
dimensions of them varied considerably according to their usage.
Gwen had shown considerable knowledge of
the site indicating that she too was an enthusiastic archaeologist, if only amateur
like him. Their meeting at had been at
the beginning of his present tour of duty and their relationship had deepened
to the point where he felt that if he popped the question the answer would be
yes. He could not understand why their paths had not crossed before. The Royal
Army Medical Corps is not so large as units go and the number of doctors is the
least of their number. If he had seen her before he would have remembered.
While she was not stunning she was certainly someone one would not easily
forget. Her dark chestnut hair was thick and wavy; her green eyes the kind that
changed shade according to her mood. Her nose was upturned and a little on the
large side but was made less obvious by her full sensuous mouth. Her lips were
a rich red that needed no lipstick and her Welsh skin so fair that any make-up
would have been a crime. She was short, which made her even more attractive to
him with him being below average height himself. Her figure was perhaps a
little heavy but her way of moving was a delight.
Their relationship had gradually deepened
until both felt the strength of their love. They were like love-struck
teenagers until a phone call was put through to him to return to the UK. He had
scowled but, while life on the island had been a serviceman's dream, especially
since meeting Gwen, it had lacked the action he needed to balance his
existence. Something interesting was if the offing in the UK.
They had a dinner at a small family
restaurant to the north of Dhekelia where they had promised to keep in touch.
He felt that he should propose but how could he when he was a part of the
darker side of Britain's defence forces?
How could he tell her what his other position in the army was? He could
never hurt her with that sort of knowledge.
On the other hand Gwen was more than a
little disturbed by his reluctance to disclose the reason for his hasty recall
to England. With him being a doctor she could not come up with a reason that
fitted. He did not specialise in medical subject that she was aware of and
questioning him on the subject might damage their relationship. That he was a
member of any clandestine unit was outside her world. She knew that such units
existed but Joe was not the type. Yet maybe he was. She had noted the
paratrooper wings on his uniform and knew they did not come easily but had to
be earned. Did she know of any other doctor who had done the parachute course?
Yes, quite a few but where any of them ever called suddenly back to England?
She knew of none. She buried her suspicions while bearing the pain of
separation with stoicism. She loved him so much that she could only hope that
he would remain in her life. She did all that was humanly possible to attract
him and hold him to her without being too forward. Sex was not a problem; they
made love as a natural progression of their relationship. Life felt so natural
when they were together and she was content with that. Whatever secrets he had,
whatever he chose not to share with her was part of him, the man she loved and
she decided to be satisfied with that. They assured each other that by hook or
by crook they would keep in touch even if it was restricted to mail. Both were
content that the other wanted the relationship to work. They had exchanged
addresses which seemed like some kind of pact between them. It was not really
necessary as either could be reached through the Royal Army Medical Corps. Any letter would find its addressee.
They had been the last to leave the
restaurant having sat contentedly holding hands with the gentle lapping waves
of the Mediterranean just a few meters beyond the sand dunes which the
restaurant was built on. Each wanted the night never to end. Joseph knew that
during the next few days he would be putting his life on the line and now he
was afraid. It was a first for him and he could find a rational reason for it -
he had not valued his life so much before but now having someone to share it
with had made living more precious. Of course he had both his parents back in
England and a brother and sister he was fond of but nothing came close to how
he felt about Gwen. He wondered if soldiers felt more ill at ease than single
men. It would make an interesting study if anyone had the courage to ask the
question and the men had the honesty to answer it truthfully.
Fear was something you hid deep inside in
order to overcome it. Should you admit to it? Then it could take over and
destroy not only you but possibly those around you. Fear was a stronger enemy
than the enemy itself and must be defeated at the same time it is felt if not
beforehand. These days he thought a good deal about fear and its management.
Fear was felt by anyone who faced a death situation. Anyone who denied it was
either a liar or psychotic. It was as simple as that. It was how you controlled
it that mattered. As a doctor he was only too aware of what was actually
happening within the body during battle stress. Raised blood pressure; high
levels of adrenaline in the blood to feed the fight or run reaction to danger,
and the weakening of both bladder and bowel. The brain can either freeze or
become over-active depending on the stage of the adrenaline rush. That split
second at the beginning was when the muscles refused to obey a mind that could
be stunned. This was the main reason why military training was designed to
create automatic responses to a given situation – to over-ride that initial
numbing in the time when the danger was at its greatest.
“What are you thinking, Joe?”
“I was thinking how bloody awful it is that
we must part. We really must make every effort to get postings together.” He hope that her female intuition. Which he
strongly believe in, did not see through his answer. If it seemed glib it was
otherwise; he meant it with all his heart. He wished he could....could what?
Trust her enough to tell her the truth? Yes damn it! He wished that more than
anything but he could not bring himself to tell her. All of a sudden he felt
dirty about what he did. While he did not himself go out to kill people he was
in the team and so was complicit in what they did. It was his job to put
together the pieces of both enemy and his team if it was possible. The choice
was often taken away from him as the mission took first priority.
He reached for her hand and squeezed it
gently. She smiled. The pain of separation was the fire that tested a
relationship. “Perhaps we should tender our resignations and set up a joint
practise in civvy street.”
“Now that's something else I admire about
you, Gwen. You are so practical.”
“Oh? I am not so sure. I imagine myself as
a country doctor. You know, in a small town or village. Not too much work
involved.”
“I second that. A thatched cottage come
health centre in the Cotswolds perhaps, with horses in the paddock and all
that.”
“Hmm, something like that but wouldn't you
prefer to be nearer the sea. To keep up your sailing I mean.”
“Sounds even better,” he admitted. “OK,
somewhere in the West Country then.”
“I will hold you to that,” she laughed.
“You can do that,” he leaned over and
kissed her on the lips but the spell was broken by the Greek waiter giving a
subtle cough. Joe laughed. “Come on, Gwen. These chaps need to get home to
their warm beds and warm wives.”
“Nice thought,” she smiled. Her green eyes flashed
a promise he must take her up on. The waiter phoned for a taxi and while Joseph
paid the bill, which included a generous tip, he felt guilty about eating into
the man's time which he could have spent at home. While they waited for the
taxi he had his arm around her shoulders, toying with her voluminous hair,
noting how the setting sun toyed and cast flames like a golden halo around her
head. Looking out over the dark Mediterranean they witnessed an electric storm,
the lightning forks striking the dark blue line of the horizon. Gwen put her
arms around his midriff and pulled him to her. He was surprised at her strength
– it felt almost desperate but he was pleased by the display of obvious
affection. He felt wanted and the sensation sent warm shivers through him. He
felt a tugging somewhere deep inside. Close to his heart. He returned her
embrace and kissing her passionately on those beautiful lips. Lips designed for
kissing.
The next morning was an agony and both
wished they had said their farewells and gone to their own rooms though neither
put it into words.. This was too much for two people who must be torn apart
according to the whims of the Ministry Of Defence but hadn't that been
happening for years?
“This is not goodbye, Gwen. Two weeks
perhaps.”
“Yes, Joe. I believe you but who can say?
Just promise me you will write me. Please don't let us end like this.”
“Gwen, I promise. This is not some fleeting
romance. I love you. I never knew what love was until I met you and I refuse to
let this separation be permanent. But I must go. I can't explain why. But I
must go. One thing I can promise is that, after this week or two, I will be
free to see this relationship through. Trust me, my love.”
“I do Joe. Oh I love you so much. Come back
soon to me.”
Despite the tortuous interruption in their
courtship his heart beat faster the nearer he got to RAF Akrotiri and his
flight home. He knew that he was about to face danger and it thrilled him.
Waiting in the airport were Forrester and
Spike Phillips. The re-union was genuinely jubilant. His expert eye diagnosed
their health and they seemed to be fit if a little sun-burned and tired. During
the flight his thoughts were on Gwen. The other two were lost in their own
thoughts. When would they meet again? He certainly hoped it would be soon. He
was smitten with her as his mother would say – if she was not saying already.
He had never mentioned female company before in his letters home but this time
he had been so full of Gwen Hopcyn that he wrote the words before he realised.
He wanted the world to know how happy he was. They had taken a trip to a
professional photographer and had a number of shots taken of them both in
uniform in rather stiff, old-fashioned poses. Even so the photographer had
captured a good deal of what was Gwen. Her whole persona shone out from her
face. But that was perhaps in the eye of the beholder. On the reverse she had
written:
“I'm selfish, impatient and a little
insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But
if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at
my best.”
He chuckled at that. It was a quotation of Marilyn
Monroe. Now he carried a 15 by 10 centimetre picture in his breast pocket like
any soldier did and should. It was framed in Turkish leather to keep it from
damage. He drew it out and studied it closely and with affection as the
aircraft circled in preparation to landing at Brize Norton. Her love radiated
out. “Beauty is unbearable, drives us to despair, offering us for a minute the
glimpse of an eternity that we should like to stretch out over the whole of
time.” The words entered Joe's mind and he strove with the quote for its
origin. Through the window he was struck by the contrast of how green England
was at this time of year compared to the burned-out landscape of the
rain-depleted Cyprus. The difference was so marked that Joseph was glad to be
to be back in his homeland. England's beauty was a subject that poets had
completely covered over the centuries, so much so that it seemed impossible to
add to it. The quote that escaped him came suddenly as the aircraft wheels
screeched on the tarmac. It was by Albert Camus who also said: “I would rather live my life as if
there is a God and die to find out there isn't, than live my life as if there
isn't and die to find out there is.” Albert Camus was a French philosopher Joseph
had read recently and been greatly influenced by. He had such an understanding
of the world that it would be reckless not to take what he said on board. Joseph Collins stepped down the stairs to
take on another mission in which his future was to be in the hands of the god
he believed in with the prayer that he would survive to be again with Gwen.
Chapter Two
Friday...April 4th,
1969...Israel...16:30 Hours
Sergeant Major Archibald
Douglas re-checked his calculations before giving the gun crews of the batteries
of Obusier 155mm Modèle 50 guns the altitude, bearing and range that, at any
time in the future, would bring down a deadly barrage of shells from the Golan
Heights onto any Syrian forces that attempted to attack the position. The
Syrian leader, Hafez al-Assad, had recently half-heartedly sent forces into the
Golan Heights in probing forays to test the strength of the Israelis and had
been easily repulsed.
Israel had controlled the Heights since the
Six Days War two years previously and had gone on to consolidate its claim by
building ten settlements with others under construction. Merom Golan, the
first, was founded in July 1967 and then served as the base from which the
others worked. Each battery of guns was protected by a number of Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft
guns with the addition of a number of AMX 105mm self-propelled Howitzers
carefully concealed under camouflage nets. Sighting the guns was the final part
of the task for which Douglas had been sent to Israel, together with his driver
and a handful of 'volunteers' from the 7th Parachute Regiment RHA,
by the Ministry of Defence. The Israeli government had bought some of the
artillery from Britain and others from France. Douglas had been commissioned to
install the pieces according to Israel's requirements. He had also delivered a
number of lectures and trained the Israeli Defence Force gun crews up to a high
standard during several shoots in the Negev Desert in the south of the State of
Israel. The officers of the IDF had also attended the lectures and live shoots
and were well capable of using the artillery to maximum effect.
While things were quiet on the Golan
Heights the same could not be said for the Sinai Peninsula. In October 1968 a ceasefire
had been brokered in an attempt to end the 'War of Attrition'
which had raged since 1967. On March 3rd, 1969 President Gamal Abdel Nasser of
Egypt officially made void the ceasefire and by March 8th had given orders to
launch artillery attacks on Bar Lev Line – a chain of fortifications built by
Israel along the eastern coast of the Suez Canal after it captured the Sinai
Peninsula from Egypt during the 1967 Six-Day War. Israel retaliated with deep
incursion into Egyptian territory and air strikes that caused heavy damage and
casualties. It was this action that had precipitated Douglas' secondment to
Israel with the shipment of artillery. It was a posting he relished. The
Israeli government had passed into law an official policy to deliberately
'overreact' to the enemy's aggression by inflicting as high a toll of
casualties as possible in a hope it would deter such acts against them in the
future. If enough enemy blood was spilled they would not be so keen to try
again.
Douglas had studied Israel's military
history since its establishment in 1948. His austere religious upbringing had
made him familiar with both the Bible’s Old and New Testaments and through such
he had formed the opinion that the Jews were entitled to the land they occupied
by God’s decree. Though a Scotsman he was a firmly committed Zionist. He had
bought a copy of Exodus by Leon Uris – a novel he found to be
both exciting and informative. It described the formation of the State of
Israel, its fight for survival against the combined aggression of the
neighbouring Arab countries and its successful victories against their massive
man-power. It made him begin to believe that the Jews were, after all, God's
chosen people. How else could one account for their victories against such
overwhelming odds? How could the broken remnants of a nation the Nazis had
attempted to eliminate create a State – and one that could stand up to be
counted as a great military power in the midst of so many enemies?
Because they were not broken!
Had their
experiences under the Nazis somehow given them the strength of character they
needed to fight for their lives? To summon the courage
to fight for what was theirs when the British had so badly let them down by
giving the Arabs the well-fortified positions and arms? And in order to change
the course of a hopeless situation, left to them when the British gave up their
mandate and walked away from their responsibilities for the Middle East, they
had to be strong. Archie Douglas admired that strength, that courage. As a Scot
he had a strong disregard for the English ruling class. That same ruling class
that had built such a huge empire at the expense of its own troops and of the
people they subjugated. It had been the same upper class of England that had
hired the German and Austrian mercenaries that had committed the atrocities at
Culloden, evil men that had searched through the dead and wounded on the
battlefield and murdered the wounded and the women and children who sought to
bring them relief. Pure Scottish blood – that of the Douglas clan – ran proudly
through his one point nine metre heavily built frame. His deep red hair and
dark blue eyes attested to his roots. He had that high military intelligence of
the Highland Scots that had almost taken England from King George II in 1746.
He was for
the most part a silent man, speaking only when he had something worth saying. He judged those around him according to his own yardstick and
suffered fools badly. If a soldier did something wrong he came down on him like
a ton of bricks. His yardstick said that there was only one way to do something
and that was so that it did not need to be done again. He was slow to anger but
formidable when he was roused. His face could appear to be stern to those who
did not know him but he had a gentle side to him that only those close to him
experienced. He had helped many men to achieve their best in the army when he
saw that they were worth the effort by signs of their own determination to
succeed. He never despised a man who was physically weaker than himself but
detested anyone who lacked any strength of character or mind He was clean
living and drank very moderately. He had never smoked and disliked being in the
company of those who did. In short he was a man who was a better friend than an
enemy and many had marked him as such.
Satisfied with his work he looked around
for his driver, a young gunner who had flown out with him among his contingent,
and signalled that he was ready to move off. Gunner David Evans, a man from the
lush valleys of South Wales, brought the short wheelbase Land Rover to a halt
in front of the sergeant. His dark brown eyes and black eyebrows questioned
silently their destination.
“Sinai, Taff. I have a feeling in my bones
that we will be needed down there before dusk.” The Welshman looked at his
watch. Four hundred kilometres before dusk – not possible, he thought but set
the vehicle in motion anyway. “I didn’t mean the whole way to Sinai, man. Tel
Aviv will do me fine. Aye. I'll need to fly to get to Sinai afore dusk.”
Even so it
was still over a hundred and fifty kilometers, thought the Welshman as he
worked his way through the gears. The roads were not paved all the way and
there was always the chance of a puncture as they drove over the vast areas of
razor-edged shale cast up by pre-historic movements of the earth. He drove carefully, choosing his route with surgical skill until
almost two hours later they came onto the coast road with the Mediterranean
glinting on their right. The going was better and Evans was able to put his
foot to the floor so that they gobbled up the distance. Even so it still took
hours to reach the military airbase section at Ben Gurion International Airport
outside Tel Aviv. Entering the base was frustrating as the men and the Land
Rover were thoroughly searched. Once admitted they drove to a large hanger
where Douglas managed to hitch a lift on a supply plane bound for Sinai. The
Welshman drove the Land Rover to the ordinary rank's mess and settled down to a
good meal before being shown to a billet where he could shake down for the
night.
The supply plane, a Hercules C-130, took
off with a roar and settled on its course with a Mirage fighter as escort.
Egypt had begun to enter Israeli air space with their MiG-17s looking for
suitable targets. The Hercules would be a juicy target for them if it was
located without an armed escort. The Mirage had proved to be superior to the
MiG-17s during the Six Days Wars two years earlier. The three hundred and forty
kilometre flight took a little more than sixty minutes during which the big
Scot dozed on his makeshift seat among the variety of stores that made up the
plane's cargo. He came wide awake as the engine tone changed and they came in
to land on the rough landing strip. This was the kind of landing strip the
Hercules was designed for: a hastily bulldozed level with little in the way of
concrete to stabilise it. That would come later.
The cargo
doors opened and he strode purposefully down the ramp through the team of IDF
who entered the belly of the Hercules to unload the pallets of vital supplies. He climbed into a vehicle that was waiting to be loaded with
ammunition and food supplies for the gun positions. The four ton truck growled
painfully in low gear up the rough mountain track to the guns where Douglas
hopped down and stretched himself before heading for the camouflaged command
post constructed mostly of sandbags. Inside the atmosphere was tense with more
than one pair of eyes on the radar screen which showed the green blips of three
incoming enemy aircraft. He scrambled back through the door and sprinted to the
nearest AAC emplacement to observe their effect on the incoming threat. A surge
of pride rose within him as one gun quickly found its target and hit one of the
fighters. The MiG gave off trails of black smoke and at its low altitude flames
could be seen licking around a fuel leak. It turned back towards the Egyptian
border, now pushed back to the west bank of the Suez Canal, before the pilot
dare eject. His bombs and rockets were still on his plane and the observers all
cheered as it became a ball of flame when it hit the ground. The two other MiGs
were hit but they had managed to fire their rockets at Israeli targets but they
hit nothing of importance. Three more aircraft were engaged and driven off by
Israeli Mirage fighters that had scrambled to intercept them before they could
fire. Archie Douglas stood amidst the smoke and dust his eyes straining through
a pair of binoculars. He followed the dog-fights all the way back to the border
where the Mirage fighters fired rockets on Egyptian gun positions with a good
success rate. All the Mirage fighters returned without damage. Some accurate Egyptian
shell fire rained down on the blazing targets around the gun emplacements. They
were using the columns of smoke to sight their guns. Israeli gunners opened
fire with both AMX-13 105mm Self-propelled Howitzers and Obusier 155mm Modèle
50 guns on the east bank of the Suez Canal. After a few minutes the incoming
shells ceased and silence reigned as night fell.
Douglas settled down to a couple of drinks after
an evening meal in the sandbagged mess. His small room was just big enough to
contain a field bed, a small table and two chairs. He read some more of Exodus
by Leon Uris by the light of a storm lantern before sleep overcame him. It came
easily after a hard day's work but just before dawn he was woken by a signaller
with a personal message for him.
“URGENT STOP RETURN TO UK SOONEST STOP
RV STERLING STOP C2”
Douglas recognised Colonel Darnley's
code-name as the sender. He felt a rush of adrenaline at the thought of a GROUP
job. They were always special though he was saddened to leave his beloved
artillery. He carefully burned the flimsy paper before going to notify his
immediate superior in the IDF.
Friday....April 4th....1969....Berlin...1100
HOURS
Sergeant Adèle Tennyson
was born of an English father and French mother in 1922. Now, at forty seven
years old, she was fortunate to appear much younger than her years. She was
physically fit and considered to be the best sniper in the British Army. Her early
training had been in France where she had joined the Resistance, after her
father’s death, and honed her skills on the occupying Nazi enemy. Her main
interests in life were languages of which she could speak English, French,
German and Italian with native fluency. In addition she could get by with
Arabic, Spanish and Greek.
At one point six metres tall she was also
painfully thin giving her a boyish appearance. Her dark hair was cut in a
mannish stile and she rarely wore make-up. Even so, she could still make men
turn for a second glimpse of her. She moved with cat-like strides and could
silently cover the ground. The British Government made regular use of her
skills to eliminate threats to the country's safety and security. She had no
problem with this – she had been shooting people since she was eighteen.
The 4th of April found her in a rain-soaked
Berlin lying on a platform, just below the roof, in the back of a plain box van
that was parked on the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Kochstrasse the back facing
Check Point Charlie. An accomplice had faked a breakdown of his car on the
crown of the road effectively blocking traffic on Kochstrasse. He clambered out
with seeming awkwardness and reaching through the side window tried to push the
car to the side of the road. A couple of men went to help him and themselves by
clearing the way. A hole had been cut on the roll down door of the van and
through this she focused her Lee Enfield N 4 Mk1 rifle. A spotter stood beside
her with a telescope at another hole waiting for the target to show up. Adèle
focused her telescopic sight and noted the range at 100 metres. From a pole a
flag hung limply indicating no wind. An easy shot if the traffic coming through
from the East was light. Any large van or lorry would block her line of fire.
“Female,
violin case, red beret-style hat,” the spotter said in a voice like a disinterested
cricket commentator.
“Roger,” Adèle breathed the word but it was
loud enough for her spotter to hear. She brought the cross-hairs to cover the
target's chest and gently took up the first pull on the trigger, held her
breath, then squeezed off the shot. She saw the target take a step backwards
from the impact of the first bullet. Her arms reached out as she lost her
balance, then she crumpled to the ground in a twisting motion. In this short
time Sergeant Tennyson had operated the bolt action to feed a second shot into
the breach. She aimed at the red beret that was still on the woman's head on
the ground and fired. The woman moved but it was the force of the bullet not a
muscular spasm. The van pulled hastily away to lose itself in the Berlin
traffic. Adèle handed the rifle down to her spotter before swinging herself
nimbly to the floor. “And I wonder what this poor girl had done to deserve this?”
she asked hoping she would get an answer. Her spotter looked down his nose at
her. His educated voice told her where she stood in his opinion. She was a
killer - someone he would under no circumstances be able to understand.
“She sold a number of our agents to the
Soviets and thought she could continue to work for us,” he replied in a bored
tone. The sniper just nodded as she took the weapon from him. He took a handkerchief
from his pocket and tried to wipe away the thin film of gun oil that coated his
fingers.
‘Poncy Rupert’, Adèle thought to herself as
she removed the magazine. A ponce is an effeminate man and a ‘Rupert’ is
barrack-room slang for officer. She retrieved the cleaning kit from her bag and
began to strip and clean her weapon. When she had finished she wiped the whole
of the outside of the rifle with a lightly oiled piece of ‘four by two’ cotton
and held it by this as she lowered it into the bag. Experience had taught her
not to leave her fingerprints on a weapon used for assassination. The man
behind the wheel drove carefully, by a circuitous route, to a lock-up garage
and pulled in through the open doors. The heavy doors swung shut as Sergeant
Adèle Tennyson leapt out when the backdoor was rolled up. She was simply dressed
in jeans, DMS boots and a dark-blue roll-neck sweater under a thick woollen
coat. She took up a large canvas shoulder bag and stepped out through the small
door into the street outside. The rifle would be taken care of by others. She
looked no different to any other civilian on the cold streets of West Berlin as
she made her way to do a bit of shopping before reporting in. The rain had
begun again but she was grateful for it. It kept that horrible grit down. Why is
the air in Berlin so gritty?
Two hours later she hailed a taxi which
drove her to a pre-war building, one of the few that had survived the bombing,
whose façade boasted a large painted sign. Weiss & Beck Plumbers was a
cover firm set up by the British Secret Intelligence Service. She entered by a
side door and climbed the creaking stairs to the first floor. The office was
long but narrow with a frosted-glass window in the end wall. In front of this
sat Donald Seagram, the controller for Berlin. He looked up from his desk where
he had been reading through a slim file. He closed it quickly and turned it
face down on the desk.
“Well?”
“Well what?” She hated this part of a
mission. It amounted to no less than an open admission that she had just taken
a human life.
“You took your time reporting in. How did
it go?”
“You have no more worries on her account.”
“Are you certain?”
“What did you want me to do? Run up there
and take her pulse? The set-up did not allow for us to hang about. We raced
away from the scene, if racing is the right word in an old Mercedes van. Any
people in the street hearing the rifle report would possibly have thought it
was the van back-firing. We got away clean. That is the main point. Not even
the American military police car parked at the check-point had time to react
and come after us.”
“Good.” The off-white telephone on his desk
tinkled like a fairy bell and was not powerful enough to disturb. Seagram
lifted it to his ear. “Thank you,” he said before replacing it. “That was our
man on the spot. The target was taken away by ambulance. The blanket was over
her face which just about settles the question. Thank you, Sergeant. Now you
are to report to the airport. You will be met there and given your flight
ticket.” He looked up at the clock. “Your flight leaves in two hours and do try
not to be late for it. You will be met at Heathrow so don't go running off
anywhere.”
“Is something happening?”
“You know better than to ask questions,
Sergeant, but the order came from Colonel Darnley.”
She stomped down the stairs with the heavy
shopping bag banging against her leg. Darnley, she mumbled to herself –
something big in the wind. She arrived at the airport early enough to buy a few
things in the 'duty free' then take a relaxing drink in the airport's bar. Over
a glass of red wine she allowed her mind to transport her back to Orléans in
France where she was born. Her father had been a captain in the British army
and had married her French mother following World War One. In 1940, when the
Germans invaded her country, he had been trapped and was forced to bury his
army uniform and join the Resistance. Adèle had been just eighteen. She had
begged her father to allow her to join the Resistance movement but he had
emphatically refused. She was to stay at home and avoid arrest, to remain and
support her mother.
She smiled as she recollected her
stubbornness - how she had slipped away at every opportunity with her rifle - an
old Lee Enfield .303 like she had used today - and had sniped at German convoys
passing along the quiet and seemingly innocent roads that led into and out of
Orléans. She had childishly cut nicks in the butt of her rifle for each kill
and prized that rifle so much. She had been occasionally spotted by Germans and
a legend had grown about the Maid of Orléans returning from the past. They had
named her the Engel des Todes – The Angel of Death. She had felt
no shame for what she did and was secretly elated at the name the Germans had
given her. While she was no Joan of Arc she was perhaps as strong a character
and as big a threat as that heroine of so long ago.
Then the day came when her father was
arrested by the Gestapo. Adèle had slipped out of the house and quickly found a
perch on the roof of a house overlooking the junction were the Rue de la
Bretonerie, Rue d'Escures and the Rue Paul Fourche
met. As her father was dragged from a car and up the steps of the Gestapo
Headquarters building she fired just one shot that killed him. He had often
said that he would die rather than be tortured by the Gestapo and thereby
betray the members of the Resistance in his cell. The war must continue.
Personal sacrifices had to be made and that had been hers. The actual shooting
was a recurring nightmare for her. Afterwards she had hidden among the railway
carriages in the railway sidings until dark when she made her way back to her
mother. The railway station, Orléans
Fleury-les-Aubrais, was the centre of the Germans supply depot to the
rest of France and as such provided regular targets for her forays. Many
officers of the Wehrmacht, SS and Gestapo met their
end while waiting for trains to Paris, just a hundred and forty kilometres to
the north-east. Adèle had continued her solitary war until the American forces
liberated her home town. Her career had then continued when she finally joined
the resistance to fight further north and eventually fighting in Germany itself
under British orders.
Friday...April 4th
1969...Aldershot Ranges...Late Afternoon
Sergeant Donald Beech
was something of an introverted man in normal life. He read novels that his
comrades would laugh at if they were allowed into his private room but he kept
them well out of sight locked in a steel trunk. Historical novels and English
classics were his favourite. No way could he allow the riff-raff to even guess
at their existence. They were of the opinion that he read nothing but war books
both fiction and non-fiction. He saw it to his advantage to cultivate this idea
and worked at it by his quotes from various historical battles – contrite
remarks by famous officers that had become well-known words of wisdom. He
watched the would-be paratroopers struggling up the hill in teams bearing
sections of telegraph poles between them. He had thirty young bodies in the
Parachute Company, each hoping they were strong enough in both mind and body to
carry them through the selection course so that they could proudly call
themselves Paras. Only a few of them would succeed. ‘P’ Company was designed to
eliminate those who were below the high standard required.
The heavy sections of telegraph poles on
the soldiers’ shoulders were very heavy, their frozen hands gripping the iron
handles that were well driven into the wood. It had rained for weeks and the
poles had soaked up plenty to make them even heavier. Beech had given them each
a cursory kick with his immaculately bulled toecaps before allowing them to use
them. They had become greasy and both ends were covered in yellow and green
moss as evidence that they were rotten and therefore heavier than they would
normally be. They sweated and they cursed; often they stumbled and then it was
Sergeant Beech's turn to curse them for their clumsiness.
“Get a grip of that pole you pansies. Do
you think you’re on holiday? You Felton, put your fuckin' back into it.”
Beech’s Liverpool accent became heavier, thicker when it came to shouting
orders to his maggots - flies that did not yet have wings. Nicer people would
call them penguins - flightless birds. The whole purpose of haranguing them was
to enrage them enough to make them strive that bit harder for their dream. Nobody
was going to give them it: becoming a Para was achieved through blood, sweat
and tears not given away.
And the men summoned that bit extra and
cursed each other again as they ran up and down The Hog's Back. The rain fell
out of the dark grey sky in sheets but they felt none of its chill. Each man
was bathed in sweat, their clothes soaked with it. They were blathered with mud
almost up to their waists. Sergeant Beech kept them at it, running beside them,
bullying them on to make even greater efforts. Back down the hill.
“Right my boys. Lower the logs slowly but
keep moving, running on the spot. Now doesn't that feel better? Don't you feel
lighter? Move them arms! That’s it, get the blood pumping through your poor
aching muscles! Work them shoulders! I don't want anybody reporting sick. On my
stag sickies get kicked off the course! RTU! You hear me!” he roared. “Returned
To Unit that means! Don't let that happen to you! You will be a laughing stock
among your mates back there after all your bullshit about joining the Paras.
Nobody joins the Paras!” he screamed. “You have to earn the right. Am I right?”
There was a staccato mix of voices. “Get it together! You hear me? Let me hear
you as one voice!”
“Yes Sergeant!” they shouted in unison.
“That's better. Team work, lads, that's
what will get you through this course. Right let's have a little trot to the
wagons. We’ll soon have you all warmed up. Get in single file now, no more than
a metre between you and the man in front. MOVE IT!”
By the time they reached the four-ton
wagons few had the strength, or wind, to climb up. Those who managed it used
the dangling rope before helping the others up.
Team work!
They flopped down on the wooden bench seats
at each side facing each other. The trucks moved off with roaring engines.
Those who still smoked lit cigarettes while those who had quit complained. All
of them shivered as the cold draughts in the back of the wagons began to bite
through their soaked clothing. The truck bounced over the rough terrain despite
its slow speed and the driver's care for his passengers. It was less than a
kilometre yet it seemed endless to the men in the backs of the wagons but at
last they reached the paved road and the wagons slowly picked up speed. Their
engines were designed to provide power not speed making them absolutely
snail-like on a convoy run. Most of the men did exercises to try to warm
themselves while on the other side of the canvas cover the rain came down in
torrents.
“I wish this bloody weather would clear
up,” said one.
“It's been pissing down since the snow
cleared in January,” moaned another shaking his head. He took off his black
beret and wrung the water out before replacing it. He thought of the wine-red
beret that waited for him at the end of the course. His black beret he would
happily throw into the garbage. All he had ever longed for was the red beret.
It was a symbol of his worth as a fighting man. Parachute training would follow
and the wings on his shoulders. He’d no longer be a crap hat. Nobody would call
him a penguin. Or a maggot but a Para, a special man in the ranks of the Army.
The red beret and the wings combined symbolising both his physical and mental superiority.
“I'll tell you what. It will be the weather
that determines who passes and who fails,” grumbled someone deep inside the
truck.
“How do work that out then?”
“Well it will all depend on who can swim,
my ducks!”
“Fuck me! Are we nearly there? I'm fuckin'
starving!”
“Five more minutes I reckon.”
He was wrong. The truck rolled into Browning
Barracks ten minutes later and lurched to a halt on the road outside their
barrack rooms. Those nearest the tailgate let it down with a clang and they all
piled out looking forward to getting the last of Sergeant Beech's sarcasm out
of the way so that they could fall out, change out of their wet gear, shower
and head for the dining hall. Beech had them fall in in three ranks while he
went through a long list, with verbal acrobatics that came with years of doing
it, of what they had done wrong and a very short list of what they had got
right. At least he finished on a positive note. That was in the training manual
too.
“All right then girls. Squad 'shun! Fall
out!”
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